The Halo eBook

Joyselle, who was sitting by his wife, looked up when
Brigit entered with the roses, but he did not speak.

“I have brought these—­for her—­Beau-papa,”
the girl faltered, and he rose.

“Thank you. Yes, she loved roses—­ma
Felicite.”

Brigit noticed, with a thrill of horror, remembering
what the doctor had said, that he spoke not quite
distinctly; his tongue was a little thick.

“Let us,” she said, laying her hand on
his shoulder, “thank God that she died so happily,
with you by her side.”

He passed his hand over his forehead where the halo
of hair lay so untidy.

“Yes. Let us thank God. You see, ma
fille—­I have not been a good man.
I have loved many women—­or thought I did.
I have betrayed her love for me; I have—­enfin,
I have not been good. But—­it all meant
nothing. She was the bride of my youth, the companion
of my—­of my young manhood.”
He stammered again, and went on with the slight difficulty
she had noticed before, “and—­I know
now that after all, and in spite of all, I have loved
only her. Felicite, ma vieille, tu m’entends?”

He laid the roses on the pillow near her little peaceful
face, and then sat down again.